


Murder City

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 1920's AU, 1920's chicago, Bootleggers, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Tommy Guns, gangster au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1826914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the heyday of Chicago, when crime abounded and money flowed free as the liquor, somehow easier to come by when it was illegal, crime lords ruled the city with their gangs. Though neither Pete Wentz nor Patrick Stump was a true Capone, the two took a much closer relationship with the city they ruled, and had an intense rivalry because of it. But inverts of the day ran in a different crowd altogether, and sometimes, in a country desperate to stamp out homosexuality, the scene can get a bit incestuous. One night stands lead to strange places, and soon the biggest gossip of the century is just one slip up away from being in the hands of two desperate reporters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

     Two men walked in silence down the street late that night. It was dark except for the streetlamps, the stars dimmed out in response to the city’s glow. After a fashion, one of them stopped.

     “Here?” The shorter man asked, his eyes widening somewhat. “Are you certain about that?”

     “What can I say.” The other one shrugged. “The boss is feeling generous tonight.”

     “And his good mood won’t dissolve with the knowledge that we control the majority of the city?” The first man said, doubt coloring his voice.

     “Well, you know, my boss, he’s got a way of keeping his fingers in every pie. This is the official boundary, but we make no promises about everymen, mercenaries. He has ways.”

     “Yeah, right. Still, it’s a lot to give up.”

     “Maybe not. Relations with your people are valuable to have these days. Maybe there’s a partnership on the horizon.”

     The first man laughed a dry laugh, staring up into the smoggy night sky over Lake Michigan.

     “Believe whatever you wanna, sir. But Wentz, he’s not big on allies. Especially not when it comes to Patrick Stump’s crowd.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

     “Sir! Sir!” Pete continued to walk briskly forward, though he could hear the woman calling out to him.

     “Sir, I demand that you turn around right now, or I will call the police!” She insisted firmly. Pete sighed, and turned on his heels, smiling brilliantly at her. The woman froze, her harassed blonde curls falling out of her bun, and her sheetlike dress that was so fashionable nowadays with a smear of flour on it. She brushed her dressed off, straightened her hat, and laughed a nervous, tittering laugh.

      “So sorry, Mr Wentz. Nearly thought you was a stranger, bursting into the place as you did. We’ve got so many loads of good for nothing business men just come to exploit these people, and I was in no mood for having it today.”

     “Not me, Greta.” Pete assured her, tipping his hat politely as he stepped across the gravel toward her. “Although, I was looking to give someone a job.”

     Greta frowned at him, shaking a strand of hair out of her face and glaring at him through downturned eyebrows.

     “I don’t want you dragging any of these young parents into anything- well, anything unsavory, that is.” She said.

     “Heavens, Greta, why would you assume it’s something unsavory?” Pete asked. His face must have been too forced looking in its innocence, because Greta continued to glare at him.

     “Why not send some of your lackies to take care of it then? That’s what you do when you offer up any good jobs for these poor people.”

     “I need a, um, personal assistant.” Pete said, giving a low chuckle. “I came to you because I need an intelligent, clean cut young man that speaks both fluent Spanish and English. The more languages the better, actually, but those are the two that I need most desperately.”

     “And you assume the immigrant halfway house-” She began with a start of anger, but Pete laughed, holding up a hand to stop her.

     “Greta, it pays good money. Do you know someone?”

     She sighed deeply, looked toward the heavens, then back down.

     “Yes, I know a boy. He just came in from Uruguay, and he’s brilliant, but too much of an upstart to put his nose to the ground. May be good for you.”

     Pete blew her a kiss and lifted his hat off. “You’re a doll, and I love you dearly.”

     “Oh, stop it.” Greta sighed, but she blushed a little, despite herself. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

     “I’d love it.” Pete assured her. Though he had been there many times, he allowed Greta to lead the way up the long gravel drive to the halfway house. Greta’s was a mostly female establishment, but men occasionally resided there as well. Really, Pete would have preferred a girl, thinking it as a brilliant trick card to play, but he had to trust Greta’s judgement.

     Greta led him through the large, gothic doors and into a long and drafty dining hall. It must be breakfast, yet Pete hadn’t gone to sleep yet, he realized regretfully. The room was dark, and filled with hushed voices speaking in a plethora of languages. Almost everyone was sitting and staring at two men in the center of the room.

     The men that argued appeared to be screaming in Spanish at each other, not that Pete could understand a word of it. Greta murmured an “oh dear” and ran forward, but Pete stayed at his vantage point, watching in earnest. The only phrase he could make out was one he remembered from an old University friend that taught him Spanish swears, and Pete distinctly heard “Puta loca!”

     Seeing Greta running straight for the men, Pete scurried after her, hoping to head off any potential injuries, his hat flying off as he ran.

     “Bastardo!” The second man screamed, punching the other one in such a hard hook that he fell to the ground. He stood over the first man, chest heaving, as Greta ran up to him.She pushed him away from the man lying on the ground, her face livid with fury.

     “You imbecile!” She screamed. The man she yelled dipped his head down, murmuring something angrily. She turned her attention to the man on the ground, hardly noticing when Pete walked over to the standing man.

     “I’m really hoping you’re who I think I am.” Pete said, looking him up and down. The man looked angry, his ratty clothing tattered, and blood trickling down from his nose. He spat blood on the ground.

     “I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Saporta.”

     “Pete, this is the man I was telling you about- will you please get him out of here!” Greta pleaded, sounding harried.

     “Walk with me.” Pete said to Gabriel. Gabriel glared at him, then walked toward the door, hitting Pete’s shoulder brusquely as he passed him. Pete shrugged, walking after him and outside.

     “He deserved it.” Gabriel said, the moment they walked outside.

     “I don’t care that he deserved it, I care that you won.” Pete said, smiling dazzlingly. Gabriel glared.

     “But he did deserve it.”

     “I wanna offer you a- ah, business proposition.” Pete interjected. He had no interest in feigning care about the situation.

     “What sort of proposition?” Gabe asked. They walked past the gravel driveway, and Pete led their path towards the back of the settlement house, through the grayish lawns.

     “I’m in the business of standing up for democracy, for what the american people love.” Pete said, his smile smooth.

     “You’re a bootlegger.” Gabriel told him, and Pete’s grin widened.

     “I like you.” Pete said. “That’s good. I need help with foreign business transactions.”

     “I’m in this country to make a living, not to get on the lam, thanks anyways.” Gabriel sneered, “Who do you think you are?”

     “I’m Pete Wentz.” Pete said, pausing to raise his eyebrows and outstretch his arms. Gabriel froze, staring at him.

     “Dios mio, I want no part with you!” Gabriel spat, blood flecking onto Pete’s white shirt. Still, Pete grinned.

     “The pay’s good.” Pete said, and Gabriel laughed.

     “I have integrity.” Gabriel turned to walk back to the settlement house, but Pete stayed where he was.

     “$300,000 annually.” Pete called out to him, and Gabe froze.A minute of silence passed before Gabriel turned around.

     “My friends call me Gabe.” He said, his eyes dark.

     “We don’t have to be friends if you don’t want to.” Pete assured him.

     “It matters little.” Gabe said, and strode forward, gripping Pete’s hand and shaking it tightly.

 

     Pete walked into the apartment he had set up for Gabe without knocking. He figured it didn’t matter much. He had secured the apartment, and at any rate, he owned the building. Aside from it not being good manners, but who cared about that?

     Gabe was still asleep in bed, the heavy hotel style cover twisted around his legs, with his naked torso completely uncovered. His breathing was heavy, and his nose seemed to have swelled up since the previous day. Pete watched him breathe in and out for a moment, so at peace. He started to brew coffee in the kitchen, helping himself the well stocked fridge.

     He was in the middle of frying eggs, lethargically dropping them one after the other into a cast iron skillet, when he tripped over something as he was going to through the eggshells into the trashcan. A ratty, emaciated cat hissed at him and yowled, clawing up his leg. Pete yelled in shock, and swung his arm at it, knocking it aside as he fell back into the stove with a clash. He stood up in time to hear a tumbling from the bedroom, and Gabe ran into the kitchen.

     “Why are you in my apartment?!” Gabe yelled, his hair messy, and no longer looking peaceful from sleep.

     “I was making you breakfast before you go out on your first assignment.” Pete said, flipping one of the eggs and salting it. “Coffee?”

     Gabe stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then shook his head, annoyed.

     “Hijo de puta.” Gabe sighed. “I like Boston style, don’t try and give me whatever you’re having.”

     “I like you.” Pete said. “You need a suit.”

     “Is that my first job, boss?” Gabe asked, and Pete looked him over, his eyes raking.

     “Yes, now that you mention it.” Pete told him. “Or I could send one up.” He handed out the plate with the egg on it to Gabe, and went back to working in the kitchen. “Your first assignment is tonight. Or very early tomorrow morning, depending on how you see things.”

     “What time?” Gabe asked, looking wary. The egg lay untouched, and Pete pouted at it.

     “I’m a good cook, you can eat that.” He said. Gabe looked balefully at him. “Three AM. There’s a shipment of absinthe coming in, really high quality, straight from Cuba, and I want it. The two timing sonofabitch told Stump,” Pete’s mouth curled around the name in distaste. “To meet him as well. I want you to make him an offer he can’t say no to.”

     “You requested I speak Spanish?” Gabe said.

    “Bribery comes in many forms.” Pete said. “Never doubt the power of hospitality and manners.”

     “I never bartered for something this big before.” Gabe said, “I’m going in there blind.”

     “Yeah, well.” Pete shrugged, his suit not even crinkling. “I’ve got faith in you.”

     Which somehow got Gabe in a shady looking dock, by himself, at 2:45 in the morning, wearing a suit that cost more than most families lived on in a year. It felt too tight and form fitting on his body, and the emptiness around him was nerve wracking on top of it, making him feel as though it weren’t the suit, but his skin that was too tight. The waves crashed in rhythmically, just a little bit slower than his steady heartbeat.

     “Here with Wentz?” A voice asked from behind Gabe. He spun around, eyes wide in terror, and pointed his tiny pistol at the disembodied voice speaking out of the darkness.

     “Who’s there?!” He yelled, sweat beginning to touch the back of his suit where it was dripping down his neck. It wasn’t even April yet, and Chicago was still plenty cold, but he felt on fire as his heart hammered.

     “Take it easy, son.” The voice ordered, in a pleasant but extremely dominant tone, like a professor with a superiority complex larger than the blackness of the lake around them. “I’m one of Stump’s.” It said, and a figure walked into the dim, orange streetlight that glowed on the concrete. Dirty blond hair looked almost fiery in the light, and a soft smile lit almost all the way up to his glasses, glinting too much for Gabe to see his eyes.

     “After all.” The man continued. “They have a truce, do they not?” His consonants were hard, but his voice was overly refined, more European than Chicago native. Gabe licked his dry lips, still holding the gun tight to his side, but nodding at him.

     “Course.” He agreed. The man flashed a grin at him, and then let his face straighten out again. Gabe’s breathing felt tight and restrained.

     “It would appear that we’re here to outbargain one another.” The man said. “But you’ll keep things civil, won’t you? The last of Wentz’ lackies did not fair so very well.” The man sighed, as though disappointed. Gabe thought frantically. Pete had hired him immediately after a fight. Did he want things to get physical? No, no, he had just said to offer whatever was needed. Surely he didn’t want Gabe as a hitman. Then again, would Gabe say no? To 300,000 a year?

     “The boat’s arriving.” The man informed Gabe politely, pulling him out of his train of thought. Gabe stared straight ahead as it pulled in, and a man jumped off, greasy and overall wearing. Gabe felt a flash of annoyance at his employer that he was stuck in a suit for this meeting.

     “So,” The overall wearing man started. “How badly you two want this drink?” He laughed, his accent thick and heavy.

     “Soy… ah… dispuesto a ofrecer.” The man said, stuttering over the words. Gabe bit his lip to keep from laughing, but one giggle choked it’s way out. The blond man glared at him.

     “It’s estoy, amigo.” Gabe sighed. He began to speak with the worker, who was, as Pete had predicted, thrilled to talk to someone in Spanish. Gabe’s offer was high. Higher than it needed to be, but this guy was pretty nice too, and he deserved it. The worker finally turned back to the other man, the one who worked for Stump, with great reluctance.

     “You wanna go higher?” he asked, looking dubious. The man smiled, a thin, impatient smile, then leaned in and whispered something into the other man’s ear. His eyes widened with terror, and he looked guiltily over at Gabe.

     “You could, ah, you could each take a leetle part.” He bargained, glancing between the two of them. “I get more, soon, rapido!” He insisted. The man who worked for Stump looked coldly at him, then nodded, curtly.

     “You will get one third of the original price.” He said. “From both of us. Consider this a lesson on learning to take sides.” Gabe shrugged helplessly at the man, who nodded.

     “Yessir, of course sir, thank you sir.” He stuttered. The blond man handed him a wad of bills, and Gabe hastily counted out his own. The man turned and began walking away.

     “Wait!” Gabe called. The man turned back to him. “Weren’t you going to- take your share?” He stared at the silhouette, confused. The man laughed.

     “They send it, pal. You’re done for the night.” As he left, Gabe turned to the worker to confirm. He nodded absently, working on unloading.

     “We’ll take it to Wentz’ dock from here.” He said shortly. No more lively Spanish conversation. Gabe nodded, walking away in silence. It appeared that he had news to give to Pete, and it wasn’t entirely good. His walk had less trepidation now. Despite the salary and reputation, Gabe felt no fear towards his boss, and, he realized with a smile, this was a very enjoyable job.

**  
**

     “What a waste of goddamn time.” Patrick groaned. He threw himself down into the chintzy armchair, glaring around the room.

     “No dice?” Joe asked. setting his gun down on the table. “I told ya, you could just send someone else, and-”

     “We got half. Half!” Patrick roared. “Wentz better appreciate his little shit. Damn foreign boys always play to their buddies.”

     “Half isn’t nothing.” Joe told him. “And it means he’s only got half too. Should be an interesting weekend.”

     “You’re in charge this time.” Patrick said. “I need a break.”

     “Where you headin to?” Joe asked, his eyebrow raised in mild curiosity. Patrick smiled up at his second in command.

     “Got a live wire uptown.” Patrick said. “I’d hate to leave ‘em hangin.”

     “And you’d dump me with the work?” Joe asked. Patrick stood up, pulling off his tie and hat and dropping them on the floor as he walked off to his room.

     “You’ve got me stuck doing your dirty work while you go off with a broad half the time?” Joe complained. Patrick shut the door, beaming with the knowledge that he wasn’t going off to meet a broad anytime soon.


	3. Chapter 3

“Gabriel.” A soft voice purred out of the darkness, speaking lightly as he pronounced it ‘Gah-bri-elle’. “I was wondering if you would come back. Some only show once. You’re not scared?” Pete looked curiously towards the sound, wondering who was speaking, and if Gabe would stop for them. He did, turning towards the door where the voice came. Gabe’s face entered the orange light, looking warm and happy, which meant good news for Pete, he hoped.

“Bilvy,” Gabe replied, his voice similarly soft. “You look like a jane out here; someone will think you’re a flapper.” Gabe smiled though, and Bilvy stepped out of the establishment he was in, into the orange street light with Gabe. The man did look very feminine, Pete had to admit. He had soft and curly hair, and an effeminate face.

“You get all dolled up for me?” The man called Bilvy asked, breathy and close to Gabe, but not so close Pete could not hear him. The street was nearly empty, since the Chicago business district stopped being filled with cars and pedestrians at nine PM for all the bankers, which made it that much easier for them to be seen. Pete would need a word with him.

“Cash or check?” Bilvy asked, giggling drunkenly as he leaned into Gabe’s chest. Gabe leaned down, pulling the man into a deep kiss, and Pete’s stomach fell down out of his feet, his eyes widening.

“Gabriel!” He said, stepping out from the shadows. Gabe pulled back, his and the other man’s eyes wide with fear.

“A word?” Pete continued, his face hard and firm. A lone car whirred past on the street, and Gabe nodded, squeezing the man’s hand before he walked towards Pete. Pete turned as Gabe approached him, and they walked into the back alley together, approaching Pete’s car. It was black and sleek, and all the paint was fresh enough to give off a reflection. Pete got in the driver’s side, and pointed to the passenger’s side for Gabe. They peeled out of the alley, and down Michigan avenue, a race back to Gabe’s apartment building.

“Apparently,” Pete began, as the motor roared through the quiet night. “The unspoken rules of this business need to be spoken to you.”

“How do mean, boss?” Gabe asked, staring out the window, and not looking at Pete. Pete slammed on the brakes, grabbing Gabe’s chin and pulling his face to be eye to eye with Pete.

“You represent me out there, kid.” Pete said, his voice barely above a growl. “I don’t want someone thinking I’ve got a goddamn invert in my midst!”

“I’m not a-!” Gabe cut himself off, growling into the dark sky. “Why’d you follow me?”

“Wanna know how the sale went.” Pete said.

“We got half the stock for a third of the price.” Gabe said. “The guy that worked for Stump was a shark. but the seller really took a liking to me. You were right.”

“And how!” Pete chortled. He stared forward into the windshield, musing. “Half isn’t bad. S’not good, but it ain’t bad. You did all right, for a first timer.”

“You aren’t upset?” Gabe asked. Pete gunned away from the curb, racing down the street again.

“Oh, I’m upset.” Pete assured him, swinging around the corner, the car angling wide under the dingy lights that barely illuminated the edges of the curb. “But I’m not firing you, and I’m not taking you for a ride, and you can go hang out with your quiff again later, but not on a major street, Jesus.” Pete shook his head, slamming the steering wheel.

“Hey!” Gabe turned a full ninety degrees to glare at Pete. “Don’t talk about him that way. He’s not a- I mean, he wants to be there just as much as I do.”

“City just full of fags.” Pete muttered in disgust. He screeched to a stop outside of Gabe’s building. Gabe got out, feeling rather cold at the moment, and he glared down at Pete.

“Anything else I can help you with?” He asked, stiff and not as warm and light as he had been talking to the man earlier. Pete smiled at him.

“Not tonight.” He said, and he sped off into the night. Half wasn’t bad, he reasoned to himself as the glistening black waters shone with the city lights. Stump would be furious at least, and that was something to be cheerful about.

Four AM meant that the night was almost over in the bar Patrick found himself in, seedy on the outside and in. Businessmen and lawyers and high end actors always went to an expensive, uptown club, special and elitist places where clever reporters could sneak into. And even though Stump was a name more than it was a face, he didn’t want to chance a single soul noticing him. So, he figured, the seedier the better.

No sooner had he bought himself a whiskey, dry as they had, because tap selections were more diminished here than at swankier clubs, when a scruffy looking man approached him. Something in the set of his eyebrows and the darkness in his eyes made Patrick think of Easter Europe, and a thick accent confirmed his suspicions.

“Seekeeng companee?” He asked, raising one of the large black eyebrows. Patrick nodded up at him, with large unblinking eyes, setting his whiskey back down with a bit of change to cover it. The man jerked his head at the exit, and Patrick followed, not bothering to look back. Dealing with his own shortage of liquor was a problem that he could face after he had been properly fucked that evening.

Just before they left, a young man, feminine and pale, entered the room, looking frightened. Patrick excused himself from the arm of the man he was with, walking over to the newcomer.

“Bill?” He said, voice filled with concern. “Are you alright?” Bill looked up at him, shrugging despondently.

“Got caught by a sheik’s boss earlier. Looked important.” Bill seemed worried, glancing around the venue. “I mean, real important. Fancy suit, shiny black breezer. Could be bad news for me.”

“Jeez, why dontcha just bring the cops on in here!” Patrick hissed. “Go hide out somewhere else, don’t bring the heat down on all our heads.”

“I just gotta talk to someone!” Bill said, distraught. “Looked like he was gonna bump my fella off!”

“Dammit, Bill.” Patrick sighed. “I’m off. But you go find him tomorrow, and if you can’t, get outta town. You’re never careful enough.” Patrick told him.

“I know.” Bill said mournfully. “Can you lend me something if I hafta run?”

“Yeah, yeah, you know who to talk to.” Patrick said, waving his hand. “Good luck.” He walked back to the man he had been talking to, repinning the flirtatious grin on his face. The man’s apartment was very nearby, and Patrick was eager for the night to end.

For the second time in as many days, Gabe woke up to Pete making breakfast in his apartment. He hoped that meant he had been forgiven, but he couldn’t be sure about this boss, he realized. There was another man in the room as well, a stout looking man with unruly red hair, standing with arms crossed in front of the door.

“Morning.” Pete said, chipper, as he handed Gabe a plate of fried potatoes. “Have you met Andy?”

Gabe slurred a negating sound out as he stared at the man who stood, still as a statue, and looked about as good tempered.

“Body guard bosom friend and second in command, how often you get that, ey?” Pete asked, smiling down at Gabe.

“Right.” Gabe said. “You aren’t upset?” He asked, trying to get the conversation over with. Pete shot a nervous look over at Andy, then said to Gabe, “Would you prefer if we discussed this more privately?” And Gabe nodded, because he was good at this work, and he knew how to take a hint. Pete pulled him into an extra room that Gabe had no idea what to do with, and was so far completely bare.

“I’m not upset.” Pete said. “You’re a fast learner, kid, and I don’t think you’ll make a rookie mistake like that again.”

“Thanks for the confidence.” Gabe said, his voice flat and toneless. Pete sighed, and bit his lip before continuing.

“You know a safer place to go for that?” He asked suddenly. Gabe’s eyes widened, and he looked at the door as though he expected Andy to be listening.

“You so concerned about me?” Gabe asked.

“I want you to show me what you do.” Pete said. Gabe chortled, and Pete stared at him in annoyance.

“One goddamned invert isn’t enough for you?” Gabe asked, a mean smirk spreading across his face. Pete looked thoroughly unamused.

“If you’d prefer to find a different line of work-” Pete began, but Gabe held up his hand, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t even know what sort of line o’work entails this.” He muttered. “But I can deal with it. Come back at midnight. And don’t bring that sap with you.” Gabe said. And Pete was gone before Gabe could think of what he had just agreed to.

 

“And you’re sure you know where you’re going?” Pete asked, dubious to the core as Gabe led him, on foot, to a sleazier part of Chicago than Pete prefered to visit. He was very glad to have lesser men come to these parts of town, and he didn’t enjoy being back out of the business district, where none of the men wore suits.

“What’s eating you, boss?” Gabe asked, a smirk playing at his face. “Big bad gangster afraid of the dark?” He pulled open an unmarked black door suddenly, so fast that Pete hardly realized they had stopped, and Gabe gestured inside. Pete entered, heart pounding in trepidation as he walked into the room. It was quiet, dimly lit as the poor streets surrounding it on the outside. Dirty tables with beer steins on them held a few men, talking in low voices. As far as speakeasies went, this had a terrible aesthetic. Pete would never have endorsed such a place for his own business endeavors.

The patrons were another matter entirely. A whole host of good looking young men, talking to each other with heads pressed so close that they could have kissed with barely any noticeable movement, at any of the given tables, even some of the men at the bar. Though the quiet was unsettling for a party atmosphere, it allowed this pleasant set up, and Pete was immediately drawn to the whole feel or the dim area.

“Ready to meet your first fag?” Gabe asked, and Pete looked up at him with panic stricken eyes. It had taken him a very long time to even consider looking at men, and asking Gabe about it was a whim, a terrible whim that he never should have followed, because this, he realized, was a dreadful idea. Anyone could see him, and in any case, he was perfectly happy with flappers and harlots, what did he need anything new or outlandish for?

Gabe must have noticed the horrified look in his boss’ eyes, so he clapped him on the shoulder in a manner that was trying to be comforting.

“Don’t fret, boss.” Gabe said, “It’s not too different from how all the regular stiffs get together.” he assured him.

“You could have picked a more private establishment.” Pete said coolly, rather than betraying the fact that his fears were far closer to what Gabe was assuming. His hired man rolled his eyes.

“Not gonna meet any colleagues of yours in here, are you?” He asked, and Pete had to admit, at least inwardly, that he was right. The kid was clever, Pete couldn’t deny him that.

Another man walked in, pushing past Pete, who had still been standing in front of the door. Pete stumbled forward, getting his bowler hat knocked to the ground by the force of the man who had just brushed past him. He picked his hat up off the ground, and felt a surge of anger rising in his chest. Not for many years had he been treated with such a lack of respect, such disdain, and he stared up, a look of determination flashing across his face. Before Gabe could even offer a word of warning, Pete was already striding forward towards the dark, cherry colored bar where the man who had bumped into him had just sat down.

Pete stood next to him at the bar, and ordered whisky in the middle of the man’s order. The bartender, a sharp looking girl, and the only woman in the bar, raised her eyebrows at Pete, but turned to get his drink. The man Pete stood next to turned to him, with the sort of aloof annoyance on his face that betrayed him to be someone that was similarly used to getting an awful lot of respect. Yet Pete froze before he could begin a conversation. Something in the face, younger and prettier than Pete had expected, stopped him in his tracks.

“I was in the middle of something, sport.” The man said. His voice was mild, but an undertone made it clear that what Pete had done was something dangerous.

“I was only trying to repay your earlier breach of courtesy.” Pete replied, stretching his hand out. “Perhaps you’re farsighted only to see the alcohol you’re approaching, but you have yourself a prescription in those cheaters, so I’d pay more attention.”

The man stared at Pete’s hand over the tops of his glasses for a moment, then stood up and shook it, delicately. His grip was soft, but his hand hard and calloused.

“You never know who deserves more attention when you first walk into a joint.” He said, presumably by means of an apology. He smiled, and his lips, pink and puffy, parted just a little bit in the center. The small expression made Pete’s knees feel weak, and he wished he had been sitting down, as the glassy eyes pierced holes in him, reflecting the yellow bar light.

“Pete.” Pete said. He cursed himself for giving out his real name, but plenty of people had that first name, so long as his surname never slipped out, he would be fine.

“Patrick.” The other man said, turning back to the bar, and taking the whiskey Pete had ordered, downing it in one gulp himself.

“I believe that was mine.” Pete said, but a smile was pulling at the corners of his lips. Patrick grinned up at him.

“Guess it was.” He said. “I can make you another, if you like. Plenty of booze at my place.” Patrick shrugged, the shoulders of his sleek suit barely lifting, his eyelashes low and more sultry looking than any woman Pete had looked at before.

“Fair enough.” Pete agreed, dropping money on the bar, and gesturing towards the door. “After you.”

On his way out, he heard Gabe whisper “Attaboy!” in his ear, and Pete remained impassive, but felt a strange surge of pride and smugness as he followed Patrick out of the building.

Patrick hadn’t been struck so dumb as to bring the stranger back to his primary apartment, but he had contacts at enough buildings on this side of town that it hadn’t mattered where he led the guy. And this man, Pete, he had such an air of infectious confidence, it had knocked some of the sense out of Patrick. He never took men home, he let them lead him wherever need be. It was an interesting situation to deal with, something in the way Pete walked betrayed that he too was used to being treated like a king. It made him that much more fun to tease.

Usually Patrick and whomever he was meeting would be wordless, but the whole walk was filled with playful banter, the kind of conversation that was hard to get ahold of when you were as powerful as he was, but Pete acted as though he ruled the world too. Giving up his real name was a terrible idea as well, but it had slipped out. And for some reason, as they laughed and dug into each other with words, Patrick hadn’t minded.

Patrick never got a chance to pour Pete his drink. As soon as they were behind the door of the room they were to stay the night in, Patrick saw a flash of teeth and then his mind fell into a blur of harsh kisses and a trail of bites down his neck, suits left behind on the floor, and short, well cared for nails digging down his back, as they fell to the floor. The very air that clung to Pete’s skin was intoxicating, drawing Patrick in closer and closer.

Of course he didn’t pour the drink. They hadn’t even made it to the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Pete rolled over in the fluffy, white bed, running into a mass of flesh. Not questioning it for the moment, he gently nuzzled his nose into the neck of the person next to him.

“Hello, beautiful.” He whispered, his words stirring up the air around the neck he was breathing into, making the small hairs on its base stand up. Pete heard a deep, throaty laugh, and the man turned around in the bed to face him, no longer wearing a hat or glasses, looking somehow smaller and softer in the morning light.

“Mornin’.” Patrick yawned, stretching out in the patch of sunlight that was hitting his side of the bed. Pete stared at the light reflecting off of his stomach and chest in wonder.It turned Patrick’s skin golden, and lit up his soft smile.

“That was… enjoyable.” Pete decided, keeping his face impassive. Patrick chuckled, turning away from his partner and reclining on the pillow, lighting up a cigarette.

“And how!” He agreed from around the butt.

“I’d best be off, though. Sorry I can’t stay and chat.” Pete said, standing up, and to his surprise, he realized that he meant it. As he stood, rebuttoning his shirt, Pete felt eyes on his back, and he turned to see Patrick looking truly disappointed, before his face flattened out into a cool and uncaring look again.

“Might see you around. You go to that dig often?” he asked.

Pete shrugged noncommittally. Saying it was his first time going to that sort of place seemed like it may not be the proper response, so he just pulled his shoes on and flashed a grin at the man behind him on the bed.

“Yeah, I might see you around.” He agreed. And, donning his hat, he strode out the door, still smiling slightly.

As soon as Pete was out of the apartment complex, he realized that it was much too late in the morning, the Chicago Tribune already greeting him from every newsstand, and the sun high enough in the sky to glitter off the dirty looking streets. He grimaced, hoping to make it back to his side of town before any trouble could occur.

Across town, the large Tribune building was bustling with activity, but no more so that usual. Though at first it was distracting, Ryan was no longer phased by the flying papers and over enthusiastic reporters, rushing to bring stories into the editors. Ryan Ross, Assistant to the Junior Editor for Entertainment, wasn’t entirely sure why he was kept on the Tribune’s payroll, but he was grateful for it. Each day, he would write an article, with perfect grammar and spelling, flowing prose, and a catchy subject, still in the entertainment section, about an up and coming musician he had heard, trying to review them as eloquently as he could, copying every technique that got published in the papers. Then he would hand it to the Junior Editor for Entertainment, and he would glance over it, stick it in a manilla file, and continue the workday as though nothing had happened. And Ryan would once again be stuck spell checking the Entertainment articles that had been passed down the chain of command all the way down to him, so the next the next three bosses above him could drink coffee and discuss, like everyone else, all the gossip they had enjoyed being a part of at Wentz’ new gin mill. Or Stump’s. Or Capone’s. it didn’t really seem to matter to them.

The morning had been going along like any other. Ryan was pencil pushing and circling mistakes in the article that he would have to retype. He had finally gotten to retyping a particularly long and grueling article about toxicity in the Chicago river, when his ribbon jammed.

Ryan swore under his breath, hit the machine, and then swore at the top of his lungs, because it wasn’t as though anyone could hear him. And if they could, they certainly weren’t listening. Unwilling to try and fight his typewriter, he wandered where he had seldom gone before, the break room, to see if there was a technician around.

The break room was thick with smoke, and Ryan could hardly see to the end of his nose, which was excuse enough, he reasoned, to have run into the man like he did, causing him to spill a mug of boiling hot coffee over both of them.

“Shit!” Ryan gasped, grabbing a handful of his shirt in the middle and pulling it as far away from his chest as possible.

“Sorry, sorry sir!” The other man gasped. “I didn’t see you there, I’m sorry!” The voice sounded desperate, and Ryan looked up into the baleful brown eyes of a man, slightly shorter than him.

“Don’t apologize.” Ryan said, gruffly. The coffee had hurt, but the man in front of him looked so miserable as he tried to mop Ryan up with his own jacket. “I reckon I ran into you as much as you ran into me.”

“So sorry, sir, it’s my first day, you know, and-” The man kept babbling apologies, and Ryan put a long fingered hand on his shoulder.

“Forget it. I’m not your superior anyways, I can assure you of that.” Ryan admitted.

“I find that doubtful.” The man sighed. “Is there anyway I can make it up to you?”

“You know how to fix a jammed typewriter?” Ryan asked, not expecting a yes. “I’m more of a pen and ink kind of guy, and this is killing me.”

“Easy.” The other man replied, and Ryan led him over to his tiny desk, spindly and looking like the weight of the typewriter could send it sprawling.

As the man began pulling bits and ink covered pieces out of the typewriter, Ryan tried to strike up a conversation.

“I’m Ryan.” He said, leaning back in his stiff wooden chair. “Ryan Ross.” A click came from the typewriter, and the man yelled, “aha!” and pulled away, beaming proudly.

“Gerard.” He said, sticking his ink covered hand out. “Gerard Way. I’m a political cartoonist, or well, I’d like to be. Right now, I’m the coffee boy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a journalist, but right now I’m an assistant monkey.” Ryan laughed, cheered by Gerard’s presence, somehow.

“Care to get a drink after work?” Gerard asked. To Ryan’s personal surprise, he nodded.

“I’ll find you at the Michigan entrance.” Ryan agreed, then sat down properly at his desk to resume typing, as someone in the distance called out for Gerard.

Later in the day, Pete drove up to Gabe’s apartment, where he was already waiting outside, leaning up against the door.

“Miss me?” Pete asked.

“Sure thing, boss.” Gabe sighed, climbing in the backseat, with the passenger’s side taken up by Andy, wearing round sunglasses and staring off into the distance.

“Need your help translating again.” Pete said, zooming down the crowded avenues as though the people weren’t there. “I got the absinthe man to come back, and I think maybe a visit from me might convince him that we deserve a little more than we’ve been offered.”

“He spoke English?” Gabe said. “You don’t need me.”

“Courtesy, Gabriel, courtesy. It’s the difference between me and Stump.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Gabe shrugged.

When the arrived at the loading docks, the boat Gabe had seen a few nights before was getting untied from where it was docked off. He cast a confused look at an angry Pete, who was already running off towards the man. They must have argued, based on Pete’s wide gestures, and the few shouts Gabe could hear back at the car. Andy went to join, him, but Gabe sat still a moment, unsure whether or not he should follow.

“I’m sorry, sir!” The man said, waving his hands wildly. “The man who came by said he was working for you!”

“And did you ask for any identification?” Pete yelled. The man kept apologizing, but the gist of it was clear- the liquor already belonged to someone else, and for a very cheap price. Cheaper than Pete’s offer. Andy put a wary hand on Pete’s shoulder, and he shook it off, storming away and ignoring the man’s fervent apologies.

“Idiot!” Pete hissed, hopping into the driver’s side again. “And one of Stump’s, I just know it. Dirty tricks and lies and no sense of honor, but I never expected any from men like him. Andy, think you can take our friend for a ride?”

“Gladly.” Andy agreed, though his face betrayed no emotion such as ‘glad’.

“Gabe, I need you again in about an hour or so. I’ll drop you off to freshen up, and then we’re going out tonight.” Pete ordered. Gabe looked as though he were struggling to say something, but he held back. When Pete stopped in front of his apartment building, Gabe grabbed his shoulder.

“Could I have a word, boss?” He asked, then looked warily at Andy, who, though wearing sunglasses, appeared to be staring. “Alone?”

Pete jumped out, and Gabe pulled him close to the door, but still drowned out by the rush of traffic to those inside.

“You trying to meet up with the same guy?” He asked. Pete glared at him.

“I don’t think that’s quite your business.” He said, his tone cold.

“I didn’t want to mention it last night, but if you’re getting into a- I don’t know, relationship-”

“It’s nothing like that.” Pete said darkly. Gabe sighed.

“Yeah, okay, boss, but if you are, you should know that the guy you left with yesterday, he works for Stump. He was the guy that was trying to outbid me on my first assignment.”

Pete stared at Gabe for a moment.

“Thank you for informing me.” He said, and walked back to the car.

As he drove, Pete’s mind was in a flurry. He was keeping secrets anyway, and this wasn’t anything he would have wanted to be public. Surely one more secret wouldn’t matter. At any rate, he thought with a wry grin to himself, he always tried to keep his work and personal affairs separate.

“Bastards, all of them!” Ryan muttered into his glass. After working at Tribune Tower one day, Gerard could already commiserate about the awful bosses that worked above them, and the long workday of not really feeling like they had accomplished anything, and in him, Ryan had found what appeared to be the best friend he had had in years. Since he had left home to move to Chicago, things had been lonely, but the coffee boy seemed well suited for him.

“What we need,” Gerard said, lighting his fourth cigarette of the evening, “Is a story. Because I’m never gonna get anywhere talking about how the president doesn’t care, and you’ll never get anywhere writing about jazz musicians. That’s not hot. You know what’s hot?”

“Speakeasies and mob bosses.” Ryan said, nodding in agreement. “but I’ve got no friends to tip me off.”

“Yeah, well.” Gerard deflated. “It’s something.”

“So how’d you wash up in Chicago?” Ryan asked, and they began talking about where they came from. And Ryan felt, in the back of his head, hopeful, for the first time in months, that something good was coming out of this dank, gray city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short, lost a bit of inspiration for this, but it'll pick up again


End file.
